


The Road Not Taken

by Speranza



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe, Day At The Beach, F/M, Kidfic, M/M, Multi, Sacrifice, Suburbia, a whole other kind of catastrophe, drag racing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing alternate universe to  <a>The Fifties</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 8, 1953 - August 10, 1960

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Fifties](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024944) by [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza). 



> Okay, so this is really only for purists - this is an AU of my AU "The Fifties" and will make no sense at all if you haven't read that, but I can't resist playing with this premise. 
> 
> Moreover, I am telling the story out of order - sort of grouping events thematically rather than chronologically - and to make things even ~~less~~ more enticing, this is likely to be an ongoing WIP where I keep adding chapters as I feel like it. :D Lastly, if you're paying attention, you are very likely to have questions like, "Wait, hang on - what the hell?" and um, yeah, I have answers, but I'll be doling them out as I see fit, like a terrible and malevolent god. It's a puzzle but only I have all the pieces, ha ha. 
> 
> However, all that being said, and being that I've got at LEAST thirty years to cover here, if there are requests for particular years or particular incidents set in this verse, drop me a line and I'll maybe give you that puzzle piece first. :D
> 
> I have a bunch of these chapters to get out before Civil War, and then we'll see how it goes after. Enjoy! (& a huge thanks to quietnight for the companion-piece cover!)
> 
>   
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm not tempting fate or—whatever," Bucky said, meeting Peggy’s eyes and then looking away fast.

### The Crash.

Bucky’s glass fell from his hand as he vaulted up and over the fence and ran toward Howard’s crumpled car, now teetering on its side in a puddle of gasoline.  “Howard!” Bucky screamed; he’d taken himself and his whiskey down to the fence so that he could see Howard’s Vette take the curve, and so he’d had a ringside seat for the whole disaster: the car in front of Howard stalling, and Howard smashing into it— _bam!_ —one wheel rising and then the whole car flipping up into the air, rolling and rolling, almost bouncing and crunching hard before coming to a stop.

Bucky was the first to reach him, and peered frantically through the smashed glass and twisted metal before practically ripping the car’s door off its hinges and hauling Howard out. Howard was dazed and blinking, blood running down his face under his helmet, but he was alive, and Bucky grabbed him under the arms and dragged him back, away from the car, in case it went up in flames.  Then there were other people crowding around, taking Howard’s weight from him. The racetrack’s small ambulance pulled up beside them in the dirt.

“Howard! Howard, you’re going to be okay!” Bucky shouted as they loaded the stretcher into the back. Howard, never a big man, looked small and frail strapped to it. The world tilted on its axis, and Bucky was in Italy, and there were blue skies overhead and gray-green Red Cross ambulances loading up with the wounded. Bucky steadied himself against a post and watched the ambulance pull away.

 

### The First Result.

"I'm quitting," Bucky said, pale, finding Steve and Peggy afterwards in the stands; they were dressed for a summer outing in sunglasses and straw hats, their faces stricken.  “I’m a fool,” Bucky told Steve, low and distressed. “A fucking _moron,_ Steve. I was given this chance, and _what_ do I do with it, _what_ —race cars, risk my stupid life, and for—?“

“Pal, he’s all right; he’s going to be fine,” Steve replied, gripping his arm.  “They said so. But we can go straight to the hospital if you—“

"I'm not tempting fate or—whatever," Bucky said, meeting Peggy’s eyes and then looking away fast. He reached down to snatch up the dark-haired boy running around them, kissed him, then lifted him up high in the air; he was tiny, he weighed nothing.  J.J. squealed with pleasure and shouted, “Again!” and so Bucky did it again.

“Whoo, I can see everything from here!” J.J. cried happily.

 

### The Second Result.

"That's it, I'm settling down." Howard’s head was wrapped in bandages, his left arm in a splint, but his drinking hand was free so he was more or less in good humor.

"Do you good," Bucky said. "A wife, stability, it's a wonderful thing.” He refilled Howard’s glass.

Howard arched an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, and what do you know about it?"

"I got a front row seat to the best marriage of the 20th century," Bucky said.

"Uh-huh," Howard said. "Is that what you call it?" but Bucky didn’t rise to the bait, just smirked and poured himself another drink.  “You gotta help me find a girl, Barnes,” Howard said, and then, pleading, almost whining, “a _nice_ girl: one of those girls you left on the shelf while you're sitting in the lap of the best marriage of the 20 th century.”

Bucky licked his lips and thought about this. “Yeah, alright. I maybe got a few ideas.”

 

### The Third Result.

“Seriously, Barnes,” Howard began, flinging open the door to Bucky’s office, “this had better be—“ 

He stopped, because Bucky had asked Maria Carbonell to step in.

Maria was a pale, somewhat ethereal blonde who, if you were a dope, you could mistake for just a pretty face. But nobody at SHIELD was just a pretty face, and that went triple for Maria, who, despite still being in her twenties and having a face straight out of a Renaissance painting, had a Ph.D. in mathematics and was a classical pianist to boot. She’d also nearly killed a German who’d tried to drag her away from her Franco-Jewish parents when she was fourteen; she’d stabbed him a bunch of times with the pointy end of her compass, and written in detail about the experience on her application to the applied math track at Columbia.  Peggy really liked her, and had recruited her special to SHIELD, where she’d been assigned to one of Bucky’s divisions. Bucky liked her too, in that she was the kind of girl he might have tortured himself over back in the old days, before he realized what was what.

“Hey, I wanted you to meet Dr. Maria Carbonell,” Bucky said, as courteously as he could manage. “She’s new here; she’s in math.  She’s been working on, uh, um…”

“Accelerated dynamical systems,” Maria said politely, smiling and a little bored.

“Yeah, that,” Bucky said.  “Maria, this is Mr. Howard Stark,” and he saw Maria start, her attention sharpening.  Admittedly, Howard wasn’t exactly looking like the dashing young entrepreneur of wartime legend: he’d lost the mummy-like bandages around his head, but he still had cuts on his face and his arm in a sling.

“Oh,” Maria said, recovering quickly. “Yes, of course. You invented the PT circuit. Marvelous thing,” and Bucky hid his smile behind his hand as Howard’s face lit up and he said, with soft, fierce happiness, “You know about the PT? Nobody _ever_ mentions the PT to me. It’s always Captain America and VitaRays and that damned flying car.  But I made my fortune on that little circuit; I founded Stark Industries on that patent…”

Five minutes later, stifling a yawn, Bucky began to make polite noises about how he really needed to get back to work and why didn’t Howard and Maria just go get a cup of coffee or something.  Fifteen minutes later he gave up and walked out himself, leaving them both in his office, still talking, and went to find Steve.

 

### Accelerated Dynamical Systems.

“It’s all thanks to you, pal,” Howard said drunkenly, the night before the wedding, one arm slung around Bucky’s shoulders and poking him hard in the collarbone over and over, for emphasis. Bucky, wincing a little, looked past Howard to Steve, who, being the only truly sober guy in the place, was taking in the whole thing with a sort of amused detachment as he sipped at his pint of beer.

“Ow,” Bucky said. “Stop poking me, you bastard.” Howard didn’t stop, or even notice.

“If it weren’t for you, I could’ve gone _years_ without meeting Miri – I mean, why the hell would I ever talk to the mathematicians, me being such a hands-on kind of guy? It could have been _years_ before we ran into each other, if we ever did,” Howard said, in a kind of awed horror. “I could have lost _the best years_ of my life. I could have been one of those guys who gets hitched when he’s gray and has kids with one foot in the grave. And what kind of a life is that? Dead before my kid even knows me—“

“Don’t count your chickens,” Steve murmured. “It’s not as easy as they said in the army.”

That got Howard’s attention, and he turned, beaming, to Steve. “Well, in fact, old friend, I happen to have a little insider information on that score,” and it took a second for the penny to drop, and then Steve was grinning and Bucky was up and whistling for the barman to bring another round, another round for _everybody_ , so they could make a toast to the imminent future happiness of the groom and bride.

 

### The Fourth Result.

Anthony Edward Stark was born in the early hours of May 29, 1955 at the Stark house on the North Shore. Howard Stark sent Jarvis to buy the entire inventory of all the local cigar stores and, beaming, gave one to every adult man in the tri-state area.

 

### The Beach.

They stopped to pick Tony up from the Stark house on their way to the beach, Steve lifting him up and into the back of Peggy’s enormous red ’59 Cadillac El Dorado convertible and settling him down next to J.J. and the double-handled picnic basket. The idea was that J.J. and Tony would play and let the adults rest and relax, except it never seemed to work out that way—mainly because Steve couldn’t resist playing too.

“You’re it!” Tony shouted, leaping and pointing at Steve, and J.J. laughed and said, “Yeah, Dad, I really think you’re it,” and so Steve mock-groaned and hauled himself up off the blanket. “Okay,” Steve said, covering his eyes. “I’m counting to ten, so get moving,” and Tony and J.J. yelped and and ran off in opposite directions across the sand. 

Bucky, still sprawled with his head in Peggy’s lap, said, lazily, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve drawled back, but he was grinning and laughing as he chased the kids up and down the beach, stretching out to grab each of them in turn and then switching as they darted, shrieking, out of his reach. Bucky’s throat tightened and he reached up for Peggy’s hand. She took it, and they laced their fingers together and held on.

Bucky tilted his head back to look at her; he could see the dim outline of his own reflection in her sunglasses.  “You know that old saw,” he said in a low, choked voice, “about ‘what good is it for a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?’" Peggy’s lovely face grew serious and she nodded. “Well,” Bucky said, “I don’t think they sufficiently considered the up-side,” and Peggy smiled and stroked his hair and said, softly, “No doubt you’re right, my darling.  No doubt you’re right.”


	2. July 14, 1950 – October 3, 1950

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going,” Bucky told her. “I’m not leaving till her husband gets here.”

### Long Island Hospital.

Joseph James Rogers was born via emergency Cesarean section at Long Island Hospital on July 14, 1950.  He came into the world with unmottled skin, a head of dark hair, and an easygoing disposition despite having been born in the midst of violent chaos--already in full swing by the time Bucky pulled up to the emergency room with a squeal of tires and which only got worse when Bucky saw the predatory faces of some of the “medical staff” hovering around Peggy once they gave her the twilight sleep and she was no longer in her right mind.

One sharp-eyed orderly carrying a clipboard paused by Peggy’s bedside, got a load of Bucky’s thunderous expression, and hurried away before asking any questions.

“Motherfuckers,” Bucky said under his breath. “I’ll kill you if I ever get the chance.”

  


### The Altercation.

A nurse tried to stare him down.  “Sir,” she said firmly, “the waiting room is—“

“I’m not going,” Bucky told her. “I’m not leaving till her husband gets here,” and the nurse’s eyebrows flew up; she’d obviously assumed that the man who’d driven this heavily-pregnant woman to the hospital in the middle of the night _was_ her husband.

Still, she recovered fast.  “Well, I’m afraid husbands aren’t allowed in here either.” 

“You can have that argument with him,” Bucky said. “Until then, you’ve got me.”

“ _Sir_ ,” the nurse tried again, “this is a _labor_ room. Men are not _allowed_ in this area.”

“ _Lady_ ,” Bucky replied dangerously, pulling his I.D. out, “this woman is the Director of SHIELD and this a matter of _national security_. I’m not _going_ , you hear?”

“I can have you removed,” the nurse said, a little uncertainly.

“Well you can surely try,” Bucky replied.

  


### A Few, Short Questions.

By the time the orderly with the clipboard reappeared, Peggy was panting and confused, but he hesitated when he saw Bucky sitting there, wiping sweat from her face with a cold, wet cloth. “I just need to ask her a few, short questions,” he said.

“Get out before I fucking throw you out,” Bucky said without looking up.

  


### The C-Section.

“What’s going on?” Bucky demanded, more scared than angry now.  He’d stayed with Peg to stop anyone from taking advantage of her while she was vulnerable, but the drugs had made her first dreamy, then incoherent, then delirious, and now she was more or less unconscious and Bucky didn’t see how she was gonna deliver a baby like that. This wasn’t like it had been with his ma. “Is this normal? What’s—?”

“The baby’s breech,” the doctor said grimly, sweating, finally deigning to answer his question. “We’re going to take her in for a Cesarean section,“ and Bucky’s heart felt like it was being crushed by an enormous metal fist—“Cut her up, you mean?” he whispered —because that was, they only did that when things were really bad, right?

The nurse he’d been arguing with appeared on his other side and said, with surprising kindness, “It’s all right; she’s going to be all right and so is the baby. Ceseareans are a lot safer now; they’re one of the safest operations that we have.”

“I’m going in with her,” Bucky said.

“You’re not sterile!” the nurse protested.

“So make me sterile,” Bucky said, and maybe she’d figured out that there was just no arguing with him, or maybe it was his face, but she sighed and said, “All right.”

  


### Steve.

When Steve got off the red-eye from Los Angeles, it was early in the morning in New York and someone from SHIELD met him at the gate and told him that his wife had gone into labor in the middle of the night and was currently at Long Island Hos—The agent didn’t get to finish the sentence before Steve blew past him, running past security and out of the airport without stopping to get his bag. He hailed a taxi.

When he got to the maternity ward, he found Bucky sitting there in scrubs holding a tiny bundle wrapped in a blanket. He looked poleaxed.  

“Peggy’s all right,” Bucky said softly. “She’s asleep. They did an operation, they—“ and suddenly there were tears rolling down his face, though he didn’t seem to notice. “Here,” Bucky said abruptly, standing and putting the baby into Steve’s arms. “You take him. I’ve got to get back in there before Peg wakes up, because—well, just because. Just trust me on that,” and then, seeing the star-struck look on Steve’s face, he added thickly, “It’s a boy, pal. You and Peg have got yourself a boy, there. Congratulations.“

“Thanks,” Steve said faintly, automatically, staring down; his eyes never left the baby for a moment. He was holding him like he was made of glass.  “Thank you, Buck.”

  


### The Verdict.

“Oh, he looks just like his mother,” everyone said.

  


### Flowers and A Rock Solid Piece of Advice.

Howard Stark appeared in Peggy’s private hospital room on the third day of her convalescence; he'd already sent a four foot high vase of flowers, which took up an entire corner of the room.

“Dollface,” Howard said, sounding oddly choked up as he bent to kiss her forehead, “you did good. I’ve seen the kid and he’s gorgeous: spitting image of you.”  

Peggy was still feeling quite poorly, but this made her smile. “Thank you, Howard.  I can hardly move at the moment, so Steve’s taken charge of him.”

“Oh, I know.  Believe me, most of the North Shore knows; Steve’s so proud he could spit,” Howard said, and then he sat down beside her bed and said, his expression sharpening: “We’ve been friends for a long time now, haven’t we, Peg? You know how I feel about you and your boys – all of them, the new one included.”

“Yes,” Peggy said, searching his face.  “Yes, Howard, of course.”

“So look—I’m going to presume on our friendship, out of my deep love for you and your boys, and then we’re never going to speak of this again, all right?” Howard said.

“All right,” Peggy agreed, forcing a breeziness into her voice.

"Let me draft you up a confidentiality agreement,” Howard said, and Peggy stared at him; that was the last thing she had expected him to say. “Your whole life’s about to change: you’re going to need baby nurses, cleaners, sitters, tutors, a piano teacher, a good pediatrician who makes house calls—“

“Yes, and they’ll all have to be vetted,” Peggy agreed.  “By SHIELD—and the Secret Service probably—because of the delicacy of my position. And Steve's.” She frowned in mock confusion and tapped her finger against her lips. “There was _something_ about Steve….oh yes, he’s Captain America; I nearly forgot.”

Howard didn’t laugh.  "Yeah, that's not what I'm talking about," he said levelly. "I’m not talking about state secrets and confidential documents. I’m talking about you and your family.  Let me draft you up a confidentiality agreement, and you make everyone sign it; everyone who comes in the house. Take it from someone who knows a thing or two about scandal and how it happens. The way you guys live—it works for you and you don’t want to risk it. I’m saying this because I love you—all of you, the three—four— _whatever_ of you. This is rock solid advice, Peg, from a friend.”

“Yes.” Peggy nodded slowly; she’d gotten Howard’s drift now.  “I can see that it is – so, yes, please: write it up.  Thank you, Howard; I appreciate it. We all appreciate it.”

“De nada,” Howard said, and sat back.

  


### Night Walking

By the time Peggy had healed enough to move about on her own, J.J. had firmly bonded with Steve, and would only go to sleep nestled in Steve’s arms or curled up against his shoulder as he walked around the house, up and down and back and forth, softly humming songs that he could remember his mother singing. And sometimes, after Steve had finally gotten the sleeping boy settled in his bassinet in the nursery, he would come out onto the verandah to find Bucky sitting on the porch swing in the dark, rocking unevenly, an empty glass of whiskey in his hand.

One night, Steve dropped down beside him and said, low and serious, “Bucky, you seem to be drinking a lot lately,” and Bucky slung an arm around him and kissed him, grinning, wet and sloppy in the dark.  “Because I can,” Bucky said, and laughed like that was some kind of joke.  “Because I can, pal.  How’s our boy doing?”

And Steve couldn’t help himself; even exhausted, just thinking about J.J. made him swell with happiness. “He’s good,” Steve said, smiling. “I just got him to sleep. Christ, Bucky, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me – I don’t know how I even thought I was _alive_ a couple of months ago; it’s like I was living without something crucial to me; my liver, or a lung. It’s like I’m whole for the first time in my life.”

Bucky smiled into the darkness. He raised his glass to his lips, then absently pulled it away when he realized it was empty. “Yeah, I figured it might take you that way.”

“What you did for me, Buck…” and something inexplicable flashed across Bucky’s face before his eyes softened and he nodded: but what had Bucky _thought_ they were talking about? “It’s everything, I owe you everything, pal; the whole world,” and then he was tugging Bucky near, and Bucky came to him easily, falling into Steve like he was boneless, his warm face pressing against Steve’s neck and holding on tight.

“I love you,” Bucky gritted out, soft, in his ear. "You can't know how much."

“But I do,” Steve replied, and he could feel it shivering between his shoulder blades: terrible; terrifying; Bucky’s love for him. “I _do_ know,” and then he was turning Bucky’s face and kissing him hungrily, pressing him back into the corner of the swing and kissing whiskey off his lips, and he really hadn’t meant to start anything, but sometimes they just caught fire like this. And when it was clear that it wasn’t going to stop, that they couldn’t stop it, he pulled away and yanked Bucky up, stumbling, to his feet, and together they went across to the garage.


	3. April 16, 1977 – April 20, 1977

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard snorted, annoyed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that kid."

### The Rocket.

“Tony called this morning,” Maria told Howard over breakfast. “He’s on his way from Korolev to Boston, some conference at MIT. He’s got a new design for a rocket, he’s very excited about it.”

Howard looked up from buttering his toast. “Any chance we can tempt him here for a visit?"

“Well, I was just thinking about that,” Maria said. “Peggy told me that J.J.’s driving down this weekend, so I thought that maybe we could call him and ask if he’d take Tony down with him.”

“J.J.’s in Boston?” Howard frowned as the maid poured coffee. “I thought he was in Washington.”

“He _was_ in Washington, but then his clerkship finished and he went back up to Boston,” Maria said.

“It’s a girl,” Howard said firmly, doctoring his coffee with cream and sugar. “There must be a girl there.”

“There _is_ a girl, but she’s in Washington, Peggy says. She says J.J. just didn't take to the Beltway.”

 

### The Black Sheep.

Howard snorted, annoyed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with that kid. Family like that, with that name and that reputation, that kid could be _anything_. A _senator_. That kid could be _president of the United States."_

Maria reached for the little pot of marmalade. "Well, maybe he doesn’t want to be president of the United States.”

"How the hell does he know?" Howard shot back.  "Has he _tried_ it?"

"He’s teaching at Harvard," Maria said, a little wryly. "So it's not like he's on the streets or anything. Also I think Peggy said something about him working for some legal clinic up there," she added. "Defending—I don't know. Indigents or axe murderers or something,” and Howard's face grew incredulous and then he settled back in his chair with a laugh.

"Oh, of _course_ he is. My mistake: it's _that_ apple, _that_ tree." Howard swiped the napkin off his lap and dumped it onto the breakfast table. "Kid wants to save the world—well, of _course_ he does. I want to save the world too, but it doesn't mean I have to wear cheap shoes while doing it. Stupid kid probably wants to live in a dump on Myrtle Avenue like his old man used to. Doesn't understand what a piece of shit life that was—and well, I mean, how _could_ he, growing up on the North Shore like he did?"

Maria frowned at him.  "If you don't want me to ask them, I—"

"No, ask," Howard said. "Call Peggy and ask. It’ll do Tony good to spend time with someone like that—I mean, it's not like _Tony's_ in any danger of moving back to Orchard Street any time soon," Howard added, rolling his eyes. “In fact, Tony may not even be living on the same _planet_ as the rest of us if he gets that rocket of his off the ground," and Maria Stark made a face that was part indulgence, part exasperation and said, "Well, he didn't get his obsession with flying things from _me_ , dear."

 

### Three Messages and a Phone Call.

It was an excruciatingly long meeting, and when Peggy finally got back to her office, her secretary, Mr. Gilmartin, stood up from his desk with a wry smile and handed her a stack of pale green messages, and then, separately, an additional three slips of pale green paper. "Everything's all right," Mr. Gilmartin said, immediately reassuring, "but he wants you to call when you have a chance," and Peggy glanced at the three slips: _J.J. telephoned 3:19 p.m., 4:17 p.m., 5:47 p.m_. The little box was checked: _please call._

"Oh dear," Peggy said, and then, sighing, "Get him for me," and she went into her office and closed the door.  A moment later her telephone rang and she picked up the receiver. "Darling, I'm _so_ sorry," she said immediately. "I hope I haven't put you in an intolerable position. Just say no if it's not convenient.”

"No, ma, it's fine," J.J. said; he sounded distracted and a little impatient, as he often did. “Happy to. Just, I don’t know how to reach him, can you give him the address here and tell him to turn up Friday around noon? I’m calling before I forget all about it,” and she heard a rustling of paper, “and if he doesn’t turn up at the right time I’m liable to just get in the car and be halfway to Hartford before I remember. My brain is not….”  

He didn’t finish the thought.

“Is it an important case?” Peggy asked sympathetically.

“Not really, no,” J.J. said with a sigh, “so I’ve got to do all the caring about it myself. My head is just…”  He laughed and said, ruefully, “I'm looking at a lot of dead plants here, momma. All those beautiful plants you sent me, they’re all dead, I’m sorry. The other day, I couldn't remember where I'd chained up my bicycle. I was wandering… Anyway, it’ll all be over tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you.”

“We can’t wait either, darling,” Peggy said. “Your father’s having fits, he’s so excited. I think he’s got a picnic planned, and he wants to go sailing or maybe kayaking with you on the Sound. Probably the Starks will ask us over one night, so bring a dinner jacket. I’ll be with you as much as I can, but I may need to stay near the telephone. I’ve got a situation, agents in the field; well, _you_ know,” and of course J.J. _did_ know; he was used to her locking herself in her office for hours at a time, or having Steve abruptly kiss him and then disappear for days on some special op. Bucky’d really been the only one J.J. could count on; he’d been the first of them to chuck the job and everything that went with it.

More rustling and then a bang and then J.J. was muttering under his breath, “Dinner jacket, right.” Then he fumbled with the receiver and said, “Remind Dad that I haven’t got the Super Serum, will you, ma?” and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m just a regular guy over here. I think he forgets,” and Peggy grinned back and replied, “Well, I don’t think you’ll ever be ‘just a regular guy’ to Dad, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t wear you out,” and then she laughed aloud as J.J. made loud kissy noises over the phone and said, “I love you, ma,” before he hung up; he'd picked up the habit from Steve.

 

### 112 Adams Road.

“Really?” Tony asked, when J.J. opened the door: he’d had to climb four flights to the attic of the clapboard house here on the wrong end of Adams Road.  “Aren’t you, like, a _lawyer_ or something?”

J.J. grinned at him and stepped back to let him in.  “I don’t need more than this.”

“Oh my God, raise your standards,” Tony said, looking around. The apartment was tiny with a sharply pitched roof, and there were books and papers everywhere: piled high on the desk, the ottoman and the floor around the armchair: entirely covering one half of the queen-sized bed shoved in the corner. Tony looked back at J.J., who seemed to have gone from lanky to scrawny. They'd spent a lot of lazy summers together on the North Shore back in the day, and in his memories, J.J. was always tanned and freckled, leaping off the pier into the water at the Rogers’ place or hanging out by Tony's pool. Now his dark hair was falling across his pale face; he looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in years. He was wearing jeans and a rumpled shirt and a cardigan, and while Tony supposed that there had to be girls who were turned on by this absent-minded professor look, he was willing to bet that none of them had been in J.J.’s apartment recently. That bed sure hadn’t seen any action in a while. 

“Did you break up with Jenny?” Tony asked suspiciously.

J.J. looked up from latching his suitcase; he seemed taken aback at the question. “No,” he said. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Tony replied, and then he yanked open the door to J.J.’s fridge, where there was a stick of butter, a bottle of Coke, two bottles of beer, half a jar of pasta sauce, and a withered lemon.

“We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic,” J.J. said.

 

### The Car.

Tony followed J.J. down and out of the house to a freestanding garage at the back of the yard. J.J. unlocked the peeling garage door and heaved: it flew up with a rattle of chains. Inside was a green bicycle and a white '69 Scrambler with red and blue racing stripes. Tony burst out laughing. 

“Well, that’s a Bucky Barnes special if I ever saw one,” Tony said admiringly. “When d’you get that?”

“My twenty-first birthday. I hardly ever use it up here, but,” and J.J. smiled and bit nervously at a little bit of dead skin at the edge of his thumb, “he wanted me to be able to get home fast whenever I wanted to.”

Tony looked at him levelly.  “You kind of look like him, you know.”

J.J. shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “I look like my mother.”

 

### Route 90.

“So tell me about Russia,” J.J. said, glancing briefly at Tony before turning his eyes back to Route 90. “Tell me about your rockets – how close are we to putting a man on the moon?”

“No way; you first,” Tony said, refusing to be distracted. “We start in on my stuff, I’ll still be talking when we reach the Triborough. Ma says you defend axe murderers,” and to his surprise, J.J. laughed.

“I haven’t yet,” J.J. said a little mischievously. “I might, though.”

“Wait wait, don’t tell me,” Tony sighed. “You don’t like bullies, you don’t care where they’re from.”

“Something like that,” J.J. replied, making a face at him. “I come by it honestly, anyway. Actually…” he began, and then he went quiet for a mile or so. Tony kept his mouth shut and let the pressure build. “Actually," J.J. said again, finally, "I’m really interested in _guilty people_. Most of my clients are guilty, though not always of what they’re accused of.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Sometimes they just say they’re guilty because they’re tired of being badgered: they just give up and agree. Sometimes they honestly don't remember and so they think, okay, I guess I did it. Sometimes they’re guilty about something else entirely and they using the law to punish themselves – sometimes for things that aren’t even illegal.” J.J. frowned thoughtfully ahead at the road. “Guilty people are interesting,” he said.

 

### Washington.

“What about Jenny?” Tony demanded.

“She’s still in Washington,” J.J. said, and then, wrinkling his nose: “I don’t like Washington.”

“But you like _Jenny_ , right?” Tony said; he had also liked Jenny, who was tall and slim and athletic and who had long blond hair that went almost down to her waist. He’d maybe tried to date girls like Jenny.

“Yeah,” J.J. said, a little wistfully. “But she took a job working for Senator Roseman, so…” He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s going to work out. We’ll see. Your turn now. Tell me about Russia.”

“ _Well_ ,” Tony began, and took a deep breath.

 

### The Theory.

“I have a crackpot theory, you wanna hear my crackpot theory?” Tony demanded.

“Lay it on me,” J.J. said.

“My theory is that we could have been to the moon like _ten years ago_ if it weren’t for _your Mom_ ,” and J.J. raised his eyebrows and said, gamely, playing along, “Wow, so it’s all my mother’s fault, huh?” 

“That’s my theory, yeah,” Tony said grimly.

“Did she blow up one of your rockets by mistake?” J.J. asked.  “’Cause she does that sometimes.”

“No, she negotiated fucking _peace in our time_ ,” Tony accused, “where what we _really_ needed was a good old-fashioned _arms race_. Instead we’re all ‘working together’ – which means, in practice, that everybody’s got to have three glasses of vodka and a plate of cold beef tongue before you can even start a fucking _meeting_. There’s no _fire_ – nobody’s in any kind of _rush_. _This_ year, _next_ year; let’s _test_ it, let’s test it _again_ – I mean, don’t get me wrong: those guys, the Russians, they’re _brilliant_ – they were thinking about space travel when we were still fucking around with covered wagons in the West. Korolev’s the only place in the _world_ that’s really serious about space travel: Houston’s a joke, Americans all want to know the practical implications: what’s in it for us?  _What’s in it for us_?” Tony repeated angrily. “ _We’ll know when we fucking get there_ , you philistines! It’s the fucking _moon_.”

“No, but Tony: what do you really think?” J.J. deadpanned, and Tony took another deep breath.

 

### Stark Aerospace.

“ _I think_ ,” Tony began, “that I’ve learned about all I’m gonna learn over there, and I’m tired of waiting. I’m gonna start my own subsidiary – Stark Aerospace – and hire all the best guys from there and bring ‘em back here, to New York – Joey, I’m so stick of beef tongue and samosas I can’t tell you.”

“Well, I just bet,” J.J. said sympathetically.

“I’ve got a new design and it _works_ , I swear to God it does. Moscow knows, but they’re putting me off: bureaucracy, oversight, Form 45A Subsection 3, blah blah, plus Nicolai applied first and we couldn’t _possibly_ jump the queue, we’ve got to be _fair_ about it: take a number. So _fuck ‘em_ ,” Tony said, crossing his arms. “I’d loved to have launched in Korolev, but I can’t wait anymore: I’ve got to _build_ this thing so I can build the _next_ thing, the _better_ thing; at this rate we aren’t moving through our failures _fast_ enough to get to the moon. _Fail again, fail better_ – above all, we gotta fail _faster_.” Tony frowned and said: “You think Dad'll go for it?  Cause I could really use his help on this – and his money."

“Jesus, have you _met_ your father?" J.J. rolled his eyes. "He's gonna eat this up with a _spoon_."

 

### Stark Mansion.

J.J. drove Tony all the way down the Starks’ enormous curving drive and pulled up in front of the door.  “Hey, listen,” he said, feeling abruptly sentimental. “I mean, I’ll probably see you but—“

Tony grinned, nodded, getting his drift.  “Right, but—“

“One of these nights, afterwards; late?” J.J. said. "In town, maybe? A drink at Dempseys?"

"Sure," Tony said, "or we could go steal beer out of Bucky's fridge in the garage like old times."

J.J. lifted his eyebrows.  "You know he'd just _give_ us one, if we asked for it."

"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?" Tony asked, and waved him off.

 

### Home.

J.J. pulled the Scrambler into the driveway just as the late afternoon sun was slanting across the house, making the windows glow orange; beyond, the light glittered like sparklers on the water. He turned off the engine and leaned forward, craning, to look up at the house. There was a light on in his mother's office; his own bedroom window was dark. He let himself look for a moment longer, surprised by but almost reveling in the pangs of longing he felt for his home, for his family. Then he got out of the car.

The garage door was open, so he went in there first, knowing by the banging and cursing that Bucky was working on a car. It was one J.J. hadn't seen before: a filthy black—what, Impala, maybe?—with red leather seats, maybe a '61 or '62. Bucky was under it, on a dolly; all J.J. could see were his two jeans-clad legs sticking out. He could tell by the grunting that Bucky was trying to loosen a fused nut. J.J. cleared his throat and nudged Bucky's leg with the toe of his sneaker, "You need more WD-40?"

The banging stopped, and after a second Bucky came rolling out with a clatter of metal wheels on concrete. He stared up at J.J. and then his face changed and he was grinning. "Crap, you're early," he said. “We weren’t expecting you for another hour, hour and half at a minimum.”

"Yeah, well, someone gave me this monstrously fast car.” J.J. extended his hand and, when Bucky took it, hauled Bucky up to his feet. Bucky wiped his hands on his jeans and then curled one arm around J.J.’s neck, pulling him in close and kissing his temple before pushing him away again.

Then he looked J.J. up and down. “You know I don’t approve of this do-gooding,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. I’m a perpetual disappointment,” J.J. replied.

“You already wasted the whole sixties,” Bucky said. “Doing I don’t even know what. _Studying_.”

“Yeah, well, there was Dad,” J.J. sighed.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Bucky snorted, but he didn’t fool J.J., who could hear the rasp of affection in his voice; no one loved Dad like Bucky did. “I’ve been trying to live up to that guy for half a century, so take it from one who knows: it can’t be done. Go to the disco or something. Play volleyball; have a drink.”

But now they were skirting serious business. J.J. tried to look casual as he said, “Yeah, so how’ve you been doing with…” but Bucky seemed to be ready for the question, and said, groaning and rolling his eyes, “I’m drinking moderately and responsibly, okay? Ask your Dad, ask your mother; ask anyone.”

“Glad to hear it,” J.J. said, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

Now Bucky's focus was back on him. “What about you: are you happy in Boston? Tell the truth.”

“I don’t know,” J.J. replied, and that _was_ the truth. “I like the law,” he said. “I like defending people.”

“It doesn’t depress you?” Bucky asked, with a tense, unhappy smile. “Human nature?”

“No, actually; it doesn’t,” J.J. said, and that was true, too. “I was just telling Tony – it’s like, people think that guilt is the end of the story. But it’s not. It’s the start of the story. Well. _You_ know.”

Bucky stared at him for a long moment and then said, “Do I?”

J.J. shrugged and said nothing, smiling faintly.

Bucky licked his lips thoughtfully and then said, “Are you asking me something?”

“Why, are you telling me something?” and Bucky laughed, then, easy and genuine, and said, his mouth curving into a fond grin, “Well, I can see you’re a very _good_ lawyer,” and then they both turned at the rumble of yet another monstrous 440 engine coming to a stop outside the house.

“That’s your Dad,” Bucky murmured as they heard the _clunk_ of the heavy car door. “Go on; go,” but J.J. was already drifting out of the garage and then loping, jogging toward his father’s car and there was Dad, beaming at him and roughly grabbing him with his strong arms and knocking him around a bit and ruffling his hair, and J.J. hugged him hard—and really, he’d been _fine_ , he’d been fine _this whole time_ : he’d had a good year in Cambridge, he liked his friends and his job and his apartment, and now the term was nearly over, and this summer he could work and write and bike along the Charles—except, hugging his Dad hard, he realized that he wasn’t going to do any of that. He was going to come back to New York and swim in the Sound, and go with Tony to terrible bars on the weekends, and figure out what the hell he wanted to do with his life. He was suddenly so homesick his teeth ached.

“You want to grill up some burgers and dogs?” J.J. managed to ask, finally; managing to pull himself together, and his father grinned at him and said, “Oh, you bet; you know I do. Hell, I _live_ for it.”


	4. July 13, 1950

### The Ladder.

After Steve left, Bucky groaned and pulled on some pants and went down to the house, squinting into the morning sunlight and wincing at the happily chirping birds. His stomach wasn’t awake enough for bacon and eggs, but he figured he'd grab a cup of coffee and a piece of toast and stretch out on the couch with the _Times_ ; he and Peg had spent many a pleasant morning together just—

It wasn't the smash, the thump, or the breaking glass that set him running—it was the bitten-off scream, because Peggy Rogers never screamed. Bucky burst into the kitchen: she was on the floor, wide-eyed and panting, one hand pressed to her enormous belly. Beside her was an overturned ladder, broken crockery and shards of glass. His heart leaped into his throat and choked him.

He was beside her in a second, grasping for her and hauling her up, carefully; with care. "I'm fine," Peg managed, her free hand flailing for him and tightly gripping his shoulder. “Bucky, I’m—” but she didn’t stop him from picking her up, sliding his arm under her knees and lifting her bodily into the air and carrying her out of the mess and into the living room, to the long Chesterfield sofa across from the fireplace.

“I’m fine,” Peg said again, but she wasn’t; she was discombobulated, brown curls falling into her face, and her hand was clutching at her belly, moving in circles— _searching_ , he realized a moment later.  “I’m—“ and then softly, relieved, breathing out, “Oh. Fine,” and then she took his hand and pulled it to her belly, pressed it down beneath her breasts. “Do you see? Fine.”

It was oddly hard, her roundness. Bucky hadn’t ever touched her belly before—she was Steve’s wife, not his, and— Something rippled under his palm. He gasped and chased the movement across: the world narrowing down to the little tickle under his hand.

“Oh my God,” Bucky said blindly, and at the sound of his voice there was a _push_ , like a kitten nudging its head into his hand. “ _Peg_ ,” he choked, and it happened _again_. “Peg, he _knows_ me.”

“Yes, of course.” Peggy sounded like herself again; calm, sensible. “He’s been living with us for months. He does backflips when he hears Steve,” and then, curiously: “Why do you say _he_?” 

For a moment Bucky couldn’t think how to answer. “Because of how you’re carrying. All high like that. My ma used to say that if it’s high and hard like that, it’s a boy.” He slid his hand across the top of her, felt the answering ripple of life. “My God…”  He looked into Peggy’s eyes and said, honest and terrified, “I swear to God, I don’t think I believed it till now.”

Peggy smiled at him and said, “Yes, I know. It’s a miracle.”

 

### In The Safest Place In The World.

“We should maybe go to the hospital, though,” Bucky said, frowning. “You know: just in case.”

She was relieved, exhausted: too tired to argue with him. “Bucky, I’m _fine_.”

“We could just check in quick,” Bucky pressed. “You know. Make sure everything’s A-OK.”

“But it _is_ ,” Peggy insisted. “Fool that I am, I’ve banged my elbow, but I’ll bet the baby hardly noticed a thing. He’s in the safest place in the world.”

Bucky’s jaw went tight, muscle trembling. “Steve asked me to keep an eye on you,” he said finally. “ _One thing_ he asked me. _Christ_.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyesockets. “What the hell were you doing up on top of a ladder, anyway?”

She liked to think of herself as a rational creature, but recently, she hadn’t felt very rational. Lately she’d been in the grip of one compulsion after another: a need to clean and clear things, make space for the child who was coming. “I wanted to change the shelf paper,” she admitted.

Bucky’s face was a picture, though she really couldn’t blame him. “Okay, fine. You just put that on my tombstone, all right? _She Wanted To Change The Goddamned Shelf Paper_.”

“I know,” Peggy groaned. “I know, Bucky, I’m sorry. Can I get you some coffee?”

“ _I’ll_ make the coffee,” Bucky said dangerously. “You stay _right_ _here.”_

“Yes, all right.  I’ll just stay here, shall I?” Peggy sighed.

 

### The Swing.

Bucky insisted she stay off her feet all day, resting. He stuck close and popped in at odd moments to give her baleful, betrayed looks, as if he was expecting to find her halfway up the wall cleaning the shelf moldings (which she’d thought about; they were furry with dust). He brought her sandwiches and biscuits and endless cups of tea and insisted on making her dinner even though she would have sworn there wasn’t a lick of food in the house—but this was one of Bucky’s many talents, making complete dinners out of nothing. Steve always said that it was something he’d learned to do as the oldest of four siblings during the Depression.

He let her come to the table to eat, and, rather reluctantly, let her help him clear up afterwards.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Peggy said, glowering a little.

“ _One thing_ he asked me,” Bucky growled, but after dinner, they went out to the porch swing together, which was their usual spot, and when he put his arm around her, all seemed forgiven.

 

### Everything That Is The Case.

“Hey, Peg?” Bucky sounded unusually shy. “Nothing,” he muttered, after she’d _hmmed_ at him.

“No, darling; what?” and it took her a moment to see through the brusque shake of his head to the yearning beneath, the vague open and close of his hand. “Oh darling,” she said, faintly exasperated, “of _course,”_ and she shifted and turned so that he could touch baby bulging out of her, and even then, he hesitated; she should have realized that Bucky would need an engraved invitation. “He,” Peggy began and then stopped— _he?_ She was still getting used to that idea, though she had no doubt Bucky was right. “He’s ours, all of ours. Joseph James,” because that was the name they’d decided upon, that Steve had decided upon, if the child was a boy.

“Yeah. I. Yeah,” Bucky said uncertainly, his hand pressed to her, searching. “I guess.”

“There’s no guessing involved,” Peggy said wryly.  “I was there. We were all there.”

He was only half-listening, his hand chasing the life within her. “And you’re okay with it.”

“Of course I am! It’s we who—we did rather railroad you into this, me and Steve—“

“I’d do anything for Steve,” Bucky replied softly. “Anything. But—“ His voice faltered. “I just don’t understand how…”

The words were tumbling out before she could stop them. “You don’t _need_ to know how, or why. This baby exists. He’s real, he’s alive, you can feel him. _The world is everything that is the case._ So don’t tell me that—“ and she wanted to snatch the words back, because Bucky was staring at her with wide, terrified eyes, and they’d had an _agreement,_ hadn’t they? An implicit agreement never to speak of this, never to say it aloud—and she’d just broken it, damn it!—

“Don’t,” Peggy nearly moaned, gripping his arm. “Oh, Bucky, please…” _Please don’t say it._

But Bucky’s face had gone slack, his mouth opening. “Oh my God,” he said thickly. “It didn’t happen this way the first time,” and Peggy couldn’t help it. She burst into tears.

 

### Spilt Milk.

“No.” Peggy wiped wetness from her cheeks with her wrist. “It didn’t. You _died_ the first time. You _both_ died; first you and then Steve." She gasped, wetly, for breath: she didn’t remember everything, but she remembered this, the pain of this. How Bucky had died, how his death had killed Steve, how Steve’s voice had crackled on the radio and gone silent. "You bastards both died and left me.”

“I thought I was crazy. I thought I was going crazy...” Bucky looked sick. “Does Steve know?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, struggling to pull herself together. “Steve’s younger than we are, so he doesn’t have as many memories from....after.” She felt a twinge, like a dull cramp, and breathed in and out to calm herself.  No use crying over spilt milk.

“Peg,” Bucky said heavily, “what does it mean?  How the hell is it _possible_?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Peggy gritted out, and nearly choked on the words. “I don’t know any more than you do. All I know is that somehow we’ve gotten the chance to be alive again, all three of us: we’re together and alive. They’re letting us live these years over, the way we should have lived them. We getting the lives we—or _he_ ,” she amended, because Bucky couldn’t argue with that, surely, “deserved. This is the life Steve deserves, isn’t it?” she pleaded, ignoring another dull aching cramp. “And why shouldn’t he get to be happy? _He saved the world_.”

Bucky lurched up, off the swing, and began to pace the dark length of the porch.  “I—are you kidding me, Peg? You think I want to _argue_ with this?  I got a head full of horrors, things I barely remember–you think I want to go _back_ to that?” He made a soft, strangled sound, his face purpling in the dark: Bucky’d been captured, made to do terrible things, she remembered. She reached out for him, to soothe him: he was breathing hard, like he’d just run a race. “This life is everything I ever wanted. Every goddamned thing,” Bucky whispered. “But that’s the problem, ain’t it? When something's too good to be true—it probably is,” and Peggy had to squeeze her eyes shut to stop more tears from coming: hell, how she _hated_ him for being right.  

“Does it _have_ to be too good to be true?” Peggy managed finally. “Can’t it just be— _good_?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky looked at her helplessly. “Maybe? But Peg, I had the serum, too. If Steve couldn’t make a baby with you, then I shouldn’t have been able to—“ 

That was when her water broke.

 

### The Trap.

The gush soaked her thighs, her skirt, and still it kept coming, dripping through the slats of the porch swing, a puddle spreading underneath. Bucky was shocked. “Peg, what’s—happening?”

 “I—“ There was another cramp—a _contraction_ , she realized. This was the beginning of _labor_ ; she was going into labor. She panted through it; it didn’t last long.  “The baby’s coming,” she managed finally. “I—we—we’re out of time.”

“ _What_?” Bucky stared at her like she’d been speaking in tongues. “You’re not due for—“

“Yes, well: tell _him_ that.” Peggy reached out and dug her nails into Bucky’s arm. “We have to decide what to do," she told him. “ _Now_ , Bucky: _right now_. I want to stay here with you and Steve and our baby. But if we’re going to fight, we’ve got to fight now. Once the baby comes…”

“There’ll be no going back.” Bucky looked paler than she’d ever seen him; he was literally white with fear. “Look, this _could_ be some other reality,” he allowed, swallowing. “But it could also be a trap. Not for me – nobody gives a damn about me, and anyway if it's a trap it’s one I’m happy to be caught in. But for _Steve_ …” and the way Bucky said her husband’s name brought the tears back; nobody in the world had loved Steve longer or better than Bucky. “I could see where there’d be people who’d want to keep him locked up and out of things. And you,” Bucky scraped out, and the tenderness she felt for him was almost unbearable. “Director of SHIELD, all the secrets you know. They could be keeping you in their pocket, picking your brain—“

“I don’t care,” Peggy burst out. “If it’s me they want, I don’t care. I’m not as good as Steve, I don’t care about the world—not today, I don’t.” She sucked for air between her teeth; the cramps were still manageable, though they wouldn’t be for long. “But if it’s _Steve_ they’re after…” Her throat closed and she couldn’t go on. Christ, she loved Steve _so goddamned much_ , had loved him from the moment she saw him, struggling to be his best self in the line at Camp Lehigh among bigger and more brutal men. Her eyes flooded but she steeled herself, one hand pressed to her belly. “We can’t let them have Steve, Bucky. If this is a trap for Steve—“

Bucky looked anguished.  “We don’t know that.”

“No.” Peggy bit her lip. “But we can’t take the chance. We can’t decide this for Steve!”

They stared at each other for a moment, stricken, and then something in Bucky’s face changed and he said, in a voice like nothing she’d ever heard from him before:  “ _I can_.”

 

### The Road Not Taken.

“Listen to me, Peg – Peg, are you _listening_?” and she’d never in her life been scared of him, not even in 1970, when they’d nearly killed each other, but she was a little scared of him now. He loomed over her, his hands like iron clamps on her shoulders. “This is on _me_ , do you hear me? _I’m_ making this call. You are under duress, you are not in your right mind, but _I am_ and I’m taking responsibility for this. It’s _my fault_ , you got that?” Her mind swam: she wanted to hit him, she wanted to kiss him; he was giving her the baby, Steve, everything. “When you think back on this, which you shouldn’t, but if you ever do, think— _This is on him. This is his fault._ Say it!—I need to hear you to say it, Peg,” and she thought he couldn’t possibly be serious, but he was.

But if he could do the hard thing, so could she. She looked him straight in the eye and said, putting steel into it, driving it home: “This is on you. This is your fault,” and he shuddered and let out a long, relieved sigh.  “Yes,” Bucky said, his shoulders dropping. “That’s right.  Because I told you, I _warned_ you, didn’t I, that you can’t ever trust me to do the decent thing,” and she reached out and took his face in her hands.  Their mouths came together with unexpected eagerness and they kissed, both of them knowing it for what it was: a benediction, a bargain, a pact.

 


	5. October, 1955

### What J.J. Knew.

By the time he was five, J.J. knew everything.

He knew that sometimes his momma slept in her bed all alone, and sometimes she slept there with Daddy, and sometimes Daddy slept over the garage with Bucky, and sometimes when Daddy was away Bucky came upstairs and slept in the bed with Momma, and sometimes they all three of them slept together in the big bed, and if the door was locked and it was Saturday or Sunday morning he was allowed to go downstairs and get a bowl of Kellogg’s Sugar Frosted Flakes and watch Captain Kangaroo on the television in the den all by himself, which was great.

He knew that his momma and daddy were Married and had Met During The War, and that Daddy and Bucky had known each other Ever Since They Were His Age and that they had Grown Up Together In Brooklyn a really long time ago. Momma hadn’t Grown Up In Brooklyn, though. She had been Raised in England (Hampstead, she said) and she sometimes had Different Ideas about things than Daddy did, but then Daddy would say, “Aw, come on, Peg, what could it hurt?” and then typically J.J. would get something really great like ice cream, or Baxter, the yellow puppy he loved more than anything in the world, or Tony, who was a tiny new baby cousin and not really all that great yet, but Bucky promised him that Tony would one day be big enough to play with.

J.J. knew that most people didn’t have three parents, but then again, he also understood that Momma was A Very Important Person In The Intelligence Community and so it made gut-level sense to him that she needed a spare husband, especially one like Bucky, who was willing to Get Out Of The Game and instead come to pick him up after school in a fire-engine red convertible Austen-Healey 100 which could go 100 miles an hour--although you never, ever should and he never, ever would, because Racing Cars Was A Stupid And Dangerous Hobby that had nearly gotten Uncle Howard killed.  J.J. mostly believed Bucky when he said this, because he understood that Bucky had Gotten Out Of The Game because he loved them all so much and wanted to take care of them. Bucky was good at taking care of people, Daddy said. He had had a lot of practice.

 

### Dad’s Job.

Daddy had some kind of important job too, and sometimes it took him away for days or even longer, but when he came back he would always go straight to J.J.’s room even if he still had dirt on his face or if his hair was sticking up in in strange ways or if it was the middle of the night.  The door to J.J.’s room would open and Daddy would step out of a rectangle of light and come to the side of the bed. He’d whisper, “Hey, sport, I’m back,” and J.J. would scramble up to hug him hard.

And then sometimes Momma would appear in the doorway wearing a nightgown or one of her long robes with the fluffy fur around the neck and say, softly, “Well, I thought I heard you come in,” and Daddy would swallow and saw, “um” and “yeah,” and then: “Goodnight, sport,” and brush a quick kiss onto his forehead before following Momma out. Their bedroom door would be locked the next morning even if it wasn’t a weekend, though there was no television allowed.

 

### Black Cherry Jell-o.

“You’ve gotta tell him,” J.J. overheard Bucky muttering to his dad one day. “You’ve gotta tell him yourself, Steve, before he starts getting strange ideas about it, or else finds out from the T.V.” 

“I know, I know,” his dad moaned, and later, after dinner, Momma served out bowls of black cherry Jell-o with whipped cream and gave his dad A Look, and Daddy cleared his throat and said, “Uh, J.J. Joe. _Joseph_ ,” and J.J. sat up because it was serious, if he was having to be Joseph. Meanwhile Momma and Bucky were eating their Jell-o like it was the most delicious thing they’d ever eaten.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you about. To try to explain,” and then Daddy explained that he was a Colonel in the United States Army, which was to say that he was a soldier and had been one since the war, but there were some people who called him Captain America because—“

“Oh my _God_ , you’re _bungling_ it,” Bucky groaned, just as Momma clinked down her Jell-o spoon and said, in a voice raw with emotion, “Joseph, your father’s the most famous soldier in the _world_ ,” and then Momma and Bucky were talking over each other like it was a competition to say crazy things: that Daddy had been small but they’d given him some kind of soup, and he’d starred in a bunch of terrible movies, and also he’d saved Bucky’s life and stopped the Nazis from dropping the A-bomb on New York and was an inspiration to millions – _millions_! – of people — and then daddy was waving his hands and shouting, “Stop, stop! You’re not _not_ confusing him!” and then he was muttering, “Oh, Jesus H.,” and pushing his chair back and stomping out onto the porch. Momma and Bucky exchanged brief, guilty looks before Bucky turned to J.J. and said, a little defiantly, crossing his arms, “Your dad’s Captain America. I’ll show you one of the posters.”

Momma snapped her fingers.  “The scrapbook,” she said to Bucky excitedly.  “I’ll get the—“  They got up, Momma disappearing up the stairs and Bucky going into the den.  J.J contemplated his bowl of uneaten black cherry Jell-o for only a moment before slipping out of his chair and going out through the kitchen door to the porch, where his dad was sitting out on the swing in the dark.

Dad smiled at him a little sadly, and J.J. went over and sat down beside him.  They rocked back and forth for a while. One of the great things about Dad was that you could talk to him but you didn’t always have to talk.

“I’ve heard of Captain America,” J.J. said finally.

Dad’s eyebrows went up.  “Oh yeah?” He couldn’t tell if his dad was relieved or annoyed at this.

“Yeah,” J.J. said. “I didn’t think he was real, though. I thought he was like—you know, Superman.”

Dad sighed and scratched his head. “Yeah, well…I tried to keep you out of it, kiddo. As much as I could. The part of it that’s about helping people? I like that part,” and J.J. nodded at this to show he understood. “But some of it’s about people taking your picture and putting in the paper, or asking you things that are personal. There’s a lot of fake smiling,” he said. “I didn’t want you to have to do any fake smiling,” and J.J nodded again, though this time he wasn’t quite sure he knew what his dad meant. “You’re my son and I love you: I don’t want you to be a prop in the Captain America show,” and that seemed to remind Daddy of something, because he groaned, “O _h God_ , but it’s true about the movies. They’re terrible. They’ve been showing them on TV,” and that was how J.J. first saw his dad as Captain America, fighting Nazis on the screen in the den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For inv3ertbrate, who asked about this. A bit more of the story for More Joy Day 2017 - I think we all need more joy right about now.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback and story requests for this verse greatly desired - also please consider [reblogging on Tumblr](http://cesperanza.tumblr.com/post/143809486410/the-road-not-taken-speranza-captain-america)!


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